


St. Catherine of Alexandria or, The Piety of the Seamstress

by LittleRedRoseontheValley



Series: Menologium [4]
Category: Desire & Decorum (Visual Novel)
Genre: Abortion, F/M, Innuendo, Libraries, Library Sex, Manipulation, Middle Ages, Religious Guilt, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 04:11:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16422155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRedRoseontheValley/pseuds/LittleRedRoseontheValley
Summary: A few days after the party, Ernest finds himself alone with Miss Beauchamp once more.





	St. Catherine of Alexandria or, The Piety of the Seamstress

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little different from what I’ve been doing so far with all those saints (Mary Magdalene, St. Thomas Aquinas and St. Paul). Instead of St. Catherine to be a stand-alone like all of those, this is a direct sequel from St. Paul.
> 
> Historical facts: the women who arranged matches for ‘fallen women’ in Northern France were, according to my grandmother, called ‘seamstresses’, because they ‘sew matches’.
> 
> It is also true that ‘fine literature’ had strong relations to folk stories. The collecting fever of those stories, fairytales, was still to come, but many European books are based on stories the common people told one another, and many of those were based on plots of books they heard about or plays that were performed on the streets, including the foreword for this fanfiction, The Act of the Ship of Hell.

_“I ask thee on my knees! Care for I have lice, angel of the Lord, my rose? For I am the generous provider for the girls at order of the canons of the See…_

_Consider me, on thy Faith, my love, my blooms, white as fine, little pearls! And I am presentable, in healthy constitution and fair skin, and I have done many a virtuous acts._

_Saint Ursula could not convert as many girls as I: all saved by mine, none has strayed. To the Lord above, I swear, all could find their place. Think thee I faltered on my watch? For I have not lost the stitch on my needle!”_

_~ The Act of the Ship of Hell, The Procuress, 1517_

* * *

 

The unsuspecting gentleman of his time could think a commoner, newly-elevated to the condition of noblewoman, would prefer to take advantage of the more gregarious aspects of her new position in life. To converse at length about nothing in particular, to gorge on flavourful food and to practice her former trade on an informal setting.

He would argue that the enlightening of the mind is a hard enough task for a man trained his whole life. What hope could have a barely-literate peasant just out of the hovels? A woman, no less?

Susan is glad she lived in such retrograde world, she was more than happy to surround herself with bigoted, near-sighted men who take her as nothing but a fat income wrapped around a pretty face.

Bring out the people who are blind, yet have eyes, who are deaf, yet have ears, Isaiah said, and Susan endorses. The stupidity of others is what furthers her position; it is their ignorance that cloaks her acts.

It is the discredit of her intelligence, of her very own literacy, that makes the library such a great place to hide from the dreaded circle of embroidery held by her despicable mother-in-law. It is the general mist of mediocrity that hangs low in Edgewater that grants the library its peaceful air.

Her afternoon was to be spent with a tall glass of water and an entertaining farce one of her former correspondents had indicated for her amusement, and her natural father had a copy hidden between the volumes in his care.

A nice way to see the Saturday tickle by, if any happen to ask her sincere input.

Her plans were interrupted, however, by a sudden interruption on her peace, in form of Mr Sinclaire’s barging into the library.

The young lady had to concede her presence there was unnoticed by her own kin, it was not fair of her to demand of Mr Sinclaire the forethought to predict her presence in the room, and he did have the decency to appear embarrassed by his actions.

“My apologies, Lady Susan.” He says, prostrate. “I was told the library would be empty.”

“No worries, Mr Sinclaire. What brings you to Edgewater this afternoon?” She asks, a soft smile gracing her features.

It was amusing to her seeing how soft men became once she was responsible for one of their releases. Even the brutish seaman on the docks of England became meek once a wiry madam satisfied his urges.

Any men was a guarantee for an entertaining spectacle, but dour, lonely sorts like Mr Sinclaire were remarkably so. Lady Susan has pulled the weights; she wagered it is time, now, to reap the results.

“I am in need of a book, milady, and your father had been kind enough to let me peruse his library in search of it.” He responds to her earlier questioning. “I wish to be no bother to your reading, perhaps I ought to return another time.”

Ah, so he was afraid to be alone with her again, she concludes. One might suppose it is unavoidable, due to the intransigence of his values compared to the frailty of his resolve.

“Why wait the soles of your shoes, Mr Sinclaire, by taking such a long walk unnecessarily?” She wonders, drawing him in with her voice. “Please, come in, I will help you finding what you desire.”

The blond man cocks his head in agreement. “Very well, Lady Susan. I gladly accept your assistance.”

He steps into the room, but leaves the door open. Noticing it to be a clever scheme to contain her, if he could not be contained, she was more deviant than that.

“Shut the door, please.” Her tone leaves no opening for dissent. “The bustle from the house bothers my concentration.”

He looks wary at the command, but obeys.

“I require a treaty on parasitic fungi, Lady Susan. Preferably a modern one, if you can find.” The esquire asks. “Would you be kind enough to look for it on that side of the room while I search for it in here?”

“There is no need for such, Mr Sinclaire. I remember to have seen a book on agricultural methods the other day I think should fit your necessity quite fine.” She says, while walking over to one of the shelves. “I fear Edgewater’s library has been deeply neglected the last few years. I’ve been trying to establish some order to the volumes, but I often have trouble even deciding where should I start.”

He nods. “It is, indeed, a shame the state of this library. You must have noticed the countess is not given to the letters, and the earl has much to be concerned to dedicate himself to the extensive care it demands.”

“You shall hear no disagreement from me.” She says as she plucks a book from the shelf. “Here it is. _Considerations on the Famine of 1775_. It is an eclectic volume, but it should give you directions on fungicide techniques.”

“I thank you, milady.” He nods his head, respectfully. “I am sure it will be of use. May I be so bold and ask what has taken your interest this afternoon?”

The brunette noblewoman shows him the lean book. “It is a medieval play, _The Farce of Master Pathelin_.”

“I cannot say I am familiar with it.” The esquire admits.

She chuckles, softly. “I did not expect you to. It is an uncommon title, I was lucky enough for my father to have a copy.”

His pride slightly hurt, Ernest scoffs and asks, “And how do you happen to know of it, then?”

“Silly highborns.” Susan shakes her head in derision. “You think the republic of letters is your restricted domain. The peasants go to the theatre, too, Mr Sinclaire, and they tell stories men of culture haughtily transcribe and call their own. I may barely escaped the spike, but I’ve been to this world about as much as you, and I wager I gathered just as much knowledge as you.”

Properly censored, he walks back his argument and humbly asks, “Have I offended you, Lady Susan?”

“No. It is I who should modulate my expectations with our reality.” She responded, lightly. “I tire of this conversation, Mr Sinclaire. Especially because I know this is a poorly calculated subterfuge to keep yourself from asking what you really want to know.”

“I-I do not know what you mean, Lady Susan, and I would prefer if you contained yourself this time.” He stutters, while taking a step back.

The woman smiles wickedly. “ _This time_ , huh? Yes, this is exactly what I mean. You want to know why I did what I did to you by the pond, and you would like for me to do it again.”

“That is preposterous!” He raises his voice, but it does not come to a shout. “I am an upstanding member of polite society, Lady Susan. I do not think of these vile acts, and I certainly do not desire to have them performed.”

She giggles and sits comfortably back in her armchair. “An upstanding man, yes, but a man first and foremost. A man with wants. It is all correct, Mr Sinclaire, it is the way of the nature.”

The esquire scoffs. “It might be the way of nature, but is not the way of the righteous. I would appreciate if you kept your deviant reasoning to yourself.”

“Have anyone ever tell you about my mother’s trade, Mr Sinclaire?” She raises to her feet and paces around the room.

“It is said she was a seamstress.” He responds, slightly confused.

“Yes, indeed, she was a seamstress.” She smiles at him, not in the way of comforting his raging nerves but to excite them further. “Do you know what a seamstress do?”

The blond rolls his eyes and responds, with a degree of sarcasm, “I am to assume they sew fabric, Lady Susan.”

“Some do, yes, especially in the realm of proper men.” She counters, wiry. “The lowborn, however, they have a special kind of seamstress. They, like my mother, disguise the loss of virtue of unmarried women and sew them matches, they arrange for the fruits of their so-called sins to vanish, and they protect the defenceless.”

“Lady Susan, I…” He starts to say, but she holds up her hand and motions for his silence.

The brunette walks closer to him, rounding him like a lion ready to pounce in its prey.

“As the years go by, Mr Sinclaire, I find men that excite my senses, that stake a claim to my attention and my good wishes. You happen to be one of them.” She says, with an unreadable expression. “To answer your question, I did it because I enjoy giving as much as you enjoy receiving.”

“Why?” He whispers. “It is a foul act.”

She shrugs delicately. “It is an acquired taste, I suppose. In time, I could teach you to enjoy giving as well, but I digress. The fact stands that I do what I do because I feel like it. For now, we have only scratched the surface of the things we can do together, but you should know there is nothing to fear. I, too, know how to _sew_.”

Susan walks over to his standing figure, cornered by the window of the library, and presses her body against his. She feels his swollen virility pressed against her uterus, and teases him by passing her thumb softly over his lips, a simulation of what she could do.

“I will tell you not whether I have already lost my natural hymen. In the future, _when_ we go to the races, if you grace yourself to propose, and I see fit to concur, then it is all correct. Though, if you do not, then there is way to have it appear like nothing ever happened.”

She raises to her feet, as in to match his unordinary height and whispers on his ear: “Let yourself go, Mr Sinclaire. I will wait for your call, I am a patient woman, but do not make me wait too long.”

The woman returns her heel to the ground and gives Ernest some space. With a final deviant smile, she walks to the armchair and fetches her book and her chalice filled with water.

“Enjoy your reading, Mr Sinclaire.” Susan says, and leaves him alone in the room.


End file.
